Among Crows and Giants If I took out a pen for every wasteful thought I wanted to write by the end of the day, At night it grows ignorance and scuttles away. If I took out a pen every time I wanted to document a worthy emotion, It would have the legs of a giant. I do not know when my complications, Became more than a worry about getting a ride to Mary’s house to play. I do not know when I didn’t have a pen. Most memories that I have are flashes of a shutter, Printed on faded paper. Faded paper and washed out colors, Are the things my memory generates. All I can really tell is these things are neither, Memorably good, or memorably bad. I consist of quilted indifferences, Depicted with a brush consisting of a mere five bristles. I remember seeing crows’ feet around my Dad’s eyes. I knew just what that meant, crows feet. Mary got married and stopped worrying about me being late to play. I was now watching my Dad grow old just as...
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